Ten To One newsletter - December 2013

 

This is the newsletter for the exciting collaborative writing project from Pigeon Park Press in which ten writers will create a novel together. This newsletter contains the latest chapters for you to read and provides you with instructions on how to vote for which writers (and characters) stay in the novel.

 

 

1) NEWS

2) HOW TO VOTE

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

 

 

 

1) NEWS

 

 

Fifth Round Results - The fifth round of chapters for Ten To One were shared 4 weeks ago and the public were asked to vote for their favourite characters/writers. The votes from Facebook and e-mail were combined with the judges' scores and Luke Beddow, creator of the character Shaun, was voted out of Ten To One. As part of the process, Luke has now been invited to join the panel of judges.

 

 

Ten To One author interview - Maria Mankin -

As part of the Ten To One project, we are interviewing each of the Ten To One authors and posting that interview on the Idle Hands collaborative writing blog. This month, Maria Mankin talks about taking your character beyond the confines of their first novel and the correct way to pronounce 'Skegness'.

 

Click here:

http://www.mrclovenhoof.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/ten-to-one-author-interview-maria-mankin.html

 

 

2) HOW TO VOTE

 

We will be posting the chapters, piece by piece on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel)  but the easiest way to read them all is in this e-mail newsletter. Once you have read all the chapters, you will need to go to our Facebook page which is https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel. You will need to have a Facebook account to access this page.

We'd like you read the chapters and then 'Like' your favourites. You can vote for more than one chapter if you wish and we don't have a problem with that.

We will be handing out points (from 10 down to 2) to the authors/characters based on how many likes they get.

Oh, and do remember, we are now voting on chapters 6.1 - 6.6 (excluding 6.2 which is Shaun's last chapter).

 

You have until midnight on 11th December to cast your vote.

Happy reading!

 

 

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

 

Below are the fifth round of chapters for Ten To One. If you have not read the earlier chapters, you can find them here:

Round 1 - http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/6pfbY/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_July_2013.htm

Round 2 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/4mFPo/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_August.htm

Round 3 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/9fDQz/h/Ten_To_One_Newsletter_September.htm

Round 4 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/8As.z/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_October.htm

Round 5 -

http://archive.aweber.com/idlehands/PatLD/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_Late.htm

 

And now the sixth round of chapters...

 

 

6.1 - Bobby

 

When he heard the trumpet call to form ranks, Bobby-who had a different name in his dream-was wandering lazily around the sun drenched marketplace of a city whose name he didn't know. Clad in loose robes with a hood covering his face, he went unnoticed though his long arms were in constant motion; moving coins from a merchant's purse into a beggar's bowl, stealing pastries from a baker's stall and slipping them into the pockets of ragged children (keeping the occasional sample for himself), guiding an assassin's blade to pierce the heart of its victim rather than it turning on a rib bone, nudging a bronze plate at just the right moment to catch the sun and blind a guardsman from spotting a thief cutting the purse of an obese nobleman, helping and hindering at his fickle discretion.  

"The trumpet to muster was sounded, Sergeant," Marcus-who also had a different name in his dream-said.

"I'm not deaf, Corporal," Bobby replied, continuing to weave his arms about, effecting changes for good and ill of countless lives through the smallest of events.

"Why do you do it, Sergeant?" Marcus asked. "Why get involved?"

"Are they not beloved above all, Corporal?" Bobby asked in return. "Are we not charged with their care?"

"And have we not fought against our very brothers and sisters against this very notion, Sergeant?" Marcus replied, emphasizing Bobby's title.

The trumpet sounded again, more urgently this time.

"The ranks of The Light are thin, Sergeant. We are needed," Marcus said.

"We fought for Him in the last battle," Bobby said quietly.

"And what good did it do us? Did He even bother to thank us?" Marcus retorted.

"No, He no longer speaks to me. I can't remember when He last did, but it was never His way to speak overly much," Bobby grudgingly agreed.

"Then we fight for The Light," Marcus said.

Bobby fell silent, contemplating.

The trumpet rang out a third time.

"You were created for battle, Sergeant. You must answer the call, for one side or the other," Marcus said.

"Will you follow me, Corporal," Bobby asked.

"Anywhere, Sergeant," Marcus replied without hesitation.

"Then let our battles become our own. I reject the beautiful lies of the The Light. As for Him, well, I imagine if he wants us he can come and find us," Bobby stated.

Marcus stared at him, wide-eyed, for long moments before a slow grin appeared on his face.

"Where will we go, Sergeant," Marcus asked.

"Everywhere we can get into some trouble, Corporal," Bobby grinned.

"Then we should go now before we're noticed," Marcus said.

But Bobby was already a speck in the distance, moving faster than The Light itself.

"I forgot how damnably fast he is," Marcus chuckled.

Then, with a shout of defiance directed at anyone who might be listening in the Heavens, Marcus set himself in motion, following the Sergeant for whom he'd willingly lay down his immortal existence.

 

****

 

Bobby lay in the darkness, trying to piece together not only where he was, but who he was. He was critically ill, he was certain of that. Given time, he would probably heal, but he was just as certain that wasn't an option. Remnants of his fever dream lingered. Marcus calling him "Sergeant" in a city he had never visited. It wasn't important. Dreams were always strange. What was important was that he was in a world of trouble and he needed to get his head straight.

He remembered the police releasing him to his solicitor. The solicitor that wasn't his solicitor. David Campbell. The Ace. The Shark. Campbell was good. Campbell could be trusted. He'd wanted to take Bobby to the hospital after he'd been released but Bobby overruled him and Campbell had been oddly compliant. Instead, he'd driven him back to his office over the arcade and left him with a warning that the police would henceforth be watching him closely and that he was to be "whiter than white" (or was it "lighter than light"), a phrase that made Bobby laugh in spite of his pain and Campbell almost blush. But his eyes held a warning that Bobby couldn't overlook. Campbell knew more than he let on and, for a reason he had yet to discover, was a strong ally. Bobby needed every ally he could muster right now.

A quick check of his mobile revealed it was almost three in the morning. He must have fallen asleep right after Campbell left. He'd lost almost twelve hours since his release; twelve very valuable hours. He needed to move.

He peeled his sweat soaked body off his couch and decided a trip to his flat was unavoidable. He needed a long shower, fresh clothes, and more cash than he kept in his office. There were also a handful of other things he needed to collect. A plan was starting to form in his mind and if he had to leave Skegness, he damn sure wasn't going to leave it empty handed.

His office had been turned over, but it was nothing he hadn't expected. Half the cash in his wall safe was gone which meant it had likely been the police. Pros would have taken it all. They had fewer forms to fill out.

The floor safe under his desk was untouched. He emptied its various contents, except for a flat, black subcompact 9mm pistol, into a small duffel bag. The pistol he stuffed into the back of his trousers. He cursed himself for not getting a holster for the weapon. He'd have no one to blame but himself if he blew half his arse off before he got to his flat.

He shrugged on his heavy overcoat and made for the door, already moving fast and beginning to move even faster. He was suddenly gripped with worry. He needed to find Marcus. If he didn't the killing would start and he couldn't be certain he could stop it. He'd seen Marcus level entire cities in the old days....and where the fuck did that thought come from? He'd never seen any such thing.

No matter. More crazy fever thoughts. One thing at a time.

By the time he was down the stairs and on the street he was close to running and had to force himself to slow down. A Black man streaking down the high street at top speed tended to draw attention.

A hand grasped his forearm and jerked him to a complete stop.

"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" he shouted when he saw who it was.

"Mr Svucs requires your presence, Mr. Thomas," said one of Andras' thugs. "We have a car for your convenience." He gestured toward a nondescript sedan parked across the street that might as well have had "Rent-A-Killer" painted in dripping vermillion on the side panels.

"Does he require the removal of the rest of his face? I'll be happy to oblige, but at the moment I'm in a bit of a rush, dead man," Bobby spat.

The man seemed a bit put out, in Bobby's estimation.

"Right, English isn't your first language so I'll try to convey this as simply as possible. You're already dead for putting your hands on me whilst I'm walking. I'd choke you to death with that hand you've so unfortunately attached to my forearm but, not only am I crunched for time, I'm being trailed by those two police officers in front of my shop who seem so obsessively fascinated by nothing in particular. Killing police officers, as you may or may not know my dead friend, is a much more complicated endeavor than killing worthless whoresons like you. SO PISS OFF!"

Smart man, Bobby thought, as he watched him retreat in full gallop to his car. He appreciated a man who valued saving his life over saving face. Unlike Andras, Bobby laughed to himself.

It was a shame Marcus wasn't around for that joke. But, of course, that wasn't true. Marcus was almost always around.

"Marcus?" Bobby called softly. "We need to talk, sunshine. I'm afraid I'm dying here and I'd like to get a few things sorted before I go. I'm bleeding inside and I think it's bad. What's the score, boy-o? Pax?"

"You're not dying, you damn fool. Yeah, you're bleeding and beat all to Hell, but you're not dying. Even if you were, there are ways around that," came a response from the shadows.

"How the fuck would you know?" Bobby asked. "If I say I'm dying, then I expect you to goddamn well agree with me. Now get out here so I can see you."

"Careful about taking His name, brother. Don't want to call attention to yourself. Not after all this time."

"My patience, Marcus. You're trying it," Bobby grated.

"Remember the Falklands, Bobby? Remember a certain medic that patched you up back then? You've always had a soft spot for the Florence Nightingales of the world. Especially when it's the same one over and over."

"Leave her alone, Marcus."

"Leave her alone? I'm the one who's been watching out for her while you wander around with your head up your arse."

"Where are you, Marcus?"

"Not here, brother, but I'll get what you need from your flat and meet you on the beach. You're right in one thing, we have a lot of to sort out and Nell is only part of it. Now, lose the coppers or slam their heads together. We've got trouble waiting on us."

"Don't we always?" Bobby sighed.

 

****

 

Marcus wandered about Bobby's flat, well pleased with how things were playing out. Bobby had been kept in the dark too long. True, he wouldn't be pleased at how Marcus had manipulated him, but they'd been together for far too long for something so trivial to come between them. Bobby had played his share of cruel jokes on Marcus, after all, and fair was fair.

A few flies in the ointment remained. Something wasn't right about the sword swallower and the Punch and Judy situation bothered him for some reason. It was likely nothing more than he found puppets sort of creepy. Then there was the odd little woman down the hall. She was probably nothing to fret over but she reminded him of something.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie. He frowned his annoyance and debated ignoring the uninvited visitor. A series of louder, more insistent knocks made his decision for him. Someone knew he was in here and someone was about to regret having that knowledge.

He snatched the door open and found that that someone was him.

 

6.2 - Shaun

 

In all the clamour of the lunchtime rush, no one had really noticed Shaun. It was by instinct rather than by conscious choice that they had left one table clear between themselves and the thin young man. After two weeks continuously guarding the flats, he needed to get out. His vigilance had done no good. Whatever evil had killed Gracie was not confined to Castleton Boulevard; it permeated Skegness. He sometimes wondered if it was taunting him. Gracie had brought him closer to finding its source, and then she had been snatched away, outside of Shaun's limited power to protect her.

He had been staring at the CCTV footage for so long that he was starting to lose track of where the cameras ended and he began. Here, among the tourists, with their sausage sandwiches and their stainless steel teapots, he could think more clearly. He shook his head and placed the knight back on its starting position. He had been moving it around the board all morning, jotting down co-ordinates in a notebook and periodically striking them out and starting again. Each neat line was another failure.

The door opened, and a bell rang. Shaun did not look up.

"Hello," Mabel said, somewhere on the other side of the room, "What can I get for you?"

"I'll have a cappuccino, please," a man's voice replied, "and a glass of Coke."

A few moments later, a man in a well-cut suit stepped into Shaun's field of vision and sat down at the other side of the table. Shaun retreated back into his chair.

"You do know chess usually needs two people, right?" the man asked.

Shaun hesitated a moment before answering. "It's called the Knight's Journey," he said, "You have to visit every square on the board without landing in the same place twice."

"The Knight's Journey? Can you finish it?" the man asked.

"No," Shaun shrugged, glancing at his notebook.

"Sometimes, Shaun, if you want to win, you need to change the rules."

As he spoke, the man lifted the knight and placed it on the square to its immediate right.

"Much easier," he said.

"Who are you?" asked Shaun.

"Have I not introduced myself?" the man took a business card from his top pocket. "Name's David Campbell. I'm with Ketch, Beadle and Lamb."

When he played chess against Popescu, Shaun had never realised how small the armchair made him feel. Now it seemed a full foot shorter than the stool on the far side of the table. Shaun looked at the man sat opposite him. Not much older than himself, the man looked back from behind a pair of fashionably studious glasses. Actually, apart from the fact that David's stubble was a deliberate statement, and his dark hair was swept neatly to one side, there was some resemblance between the two men. Shaun almost laughed; his father had sent a surrogate to find the prodigal. Maybe that was what he wanted in a son - crisp white shirts and tie-clips.

"Drink?" David asked.

He pushed the glass of Coke across the table, before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Your father wants you to come home, Shaun," he continued. "You must have noticed how bad things are getting around here. I heard a little girl died in some warehouse fire the other day. Poor child, all alone. This isn't a healthy environment for somebody of your er... sensitivity, shall we say?"

"They need me here," Shaun said.

"Need you? You're a handyman, Shaun. They can get somebody else to unblock the toilets. And besides, there are plenty of leaky taps in Kensington, though I daresay your father might have slightly loftier ambitions for you. Eventually."

"You don't understand. The flats are in danger, somebody needs to protect them."

David shook his head.

"Listen to yourself," he said. "You're not well. The firm's business here is... complicated, Shaun. You're father doesn't want you to get mixed up in it."

Shaun knew what that meant. Ketch, Beadle and Lamb had an important case in town; an ex-cultist son running around could be a potential source of embarrassment. He looked around the café. Everybody looked so calm, so normal. They were enjoying a few days on the coast, or having a coffee in their lunch breaks. He could see why they avoided him.

"It can't have been easy," David's tone was more sympathetic now, "coming out here on your own after you left those UFO people. When your dad told me about you, I wondered why you didn't go back to London in the first place."

Shaun shrugged.

"I was a kid when I left," he said, "I wanted to work out who I was as an adult, not go back to being looked after by 'daddy'."

"So why here?"

"My mum used to bring me here sometimes. After the divorce."

"There's no shame in going to your family for help, you know? Like you said, you need chance to find yourself. Skegness isn't a great place to do that now. Anybody can see its not doing you any good. When was the last time you slept?"

Shaun had to admit, he was tired. It wasn't the broken sleep so much, it was this place; the flats on Castleton Boulevard, with fresh absence stalking the corridors, bearing their full weight down on his shoulders. He didn't know how much longer he could hold them.

His eyes were glazed with a thick lens of water. He rubbed them with the heel of his hand and took a long drink from his glass.

"It's alright, mate," said David, "You don't need to be here. You should be somewhere safe, with people who care about you. It's all taken care of, Shaun. First-class ticket and everything."

Shaun nodded uncertainly. Already, his burden felt a little lighter.

"I'm staying at the Lyndsay Guesthouse, on Scarborough Avenue," David continued. "Look, your train isn't 'til half four. That'll give you a couple of hours to pack. I can pick you up around quarter to and run you to the station, yeah?"

"Sure." Perhaps that would be for the best. Maybe there was no great evil underlying everything. Shaun knew one thing for certain: he need to rest.

"Could you..." he started, "could you keep an eye on the flats while you're here?"

"Yeah, mate. No problem." David got up to leave. "Three forty-five. Make sure you're ready."

Shaun knew he was lying, but perhaps he had a point. He was a janitor, what could he really do to protect anybody. Slowly, Shaun folded up the chess board. When he had put the torn lid back on the box, he carried it up to the counter.

"Are you okay, Shaun?" Mabel asked him.

There was so much he needed to tell her, and it all came out at once. "Watch out for Popescu. He's not who he says he is. He's got some sort of secret. He..."

"I know," Mabel interrupted him.

"You know?" Shaun hadn't been expecting this

"Back when he was in Romania, there was a fire at an orphanage. Can you blame him if he doesn't like to talk about it?"

"He's dangerous, Mabel. He's got a gun. There's a bullet-hole in his wall. And he knows the man from the beach. Gracie saw him."

For a moment, Mabel had looked interested, but Shaun had lost her attention when he brought up Gracie.

"Gracie's dead, Shaun," she said, kindly. "I need to deal with this queue, and you should go home and rest. I'll come and check on you later, okay?"

Shaun sighed and tore a page out of his notebook.

"Just have this," he said, passing it to her, "It's everything I've been able to work out. And be safe."

"I always am," she said, as Shaun left.

 

***

As Shaun got closer to the flats, he began to recognise the figure standing outside in the black coat. It was Harry, Gracie's social worker. Shaun couldn't forget what she had said about him the last time he saw her. She had been convinced that Harry was the bogeyman in Popescu's stories. Shaun quickened his step.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. "The Greenwood's won't want to see you."

"And what about me?" Harry replied, "I worked with that little girl for almost her whole life. Am I not allowed to grieve?"

Shaun couldn't say why, but something about the man made him feel uneasy.

"Anyway," said Harry, "I'm not here for them. I came to see you."

Shaun knew he should go; he was supposed to be leaving all of this behind. But here was l'uomo nero, standing at his front door.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I just want to talk," Harry said, rolling up his sleeve and revealing the mark of the Brotherhood on his forearm.

"You're from the Brotherhood?"

Harry nodded. "I've been keeping an eye on you, Shaun. It's why I'm here."

"I thought the only Brothers who weren't at Starhaven were the ones in the Outreach Centre?"

"Let's just say we have other sorts of missionary."

"Gracie didn't trust you," Shaun said.

"I know," Harry replied, "she was perceptive. When we are away from Starhaven, there are dark forces swarming around us, trying to remove us from the guiding light of the Intelligences. Gracie could feel their influence, but she couldn't tell where it was coming from."

"Did you have her adopted here so you could spy on me?"

"That was... fortunate, but it wasn't within my power." Harry smiled. "Perhaps the intelligences had a hand in it. They want me to bring you home."

"I am going home," Shaun said, "to my father."

"You can't do that," said Harry, "it's too dangerous. There are dark forces at play here Shaun. They know you're connection with the Intelligences is weak, and they have been throwing all they have into trying to break it. Some of them have been viscous, and tried to tear it apart by force, but others have come disguised as friends, and tried to fool you into breaking that connection yourself. If you go back to London, they will simply follow you there, and I won't be able to protect you."

Was this where he had been going wrong? His attempts map out how the events of the last month were related had always started with Popescu at the centre; he always placed himself on the outskirts, but perhaps he had been looking at it wrong. After all, it was he who had found the gun that afternoon, he who had told Valerie about it.

"You shouldn't be here, Shaun," said Harry. "The influence the dark forces have on this planet are only going to get worse - there are solar storms coming. You should be with the people who care about you. Who love you, even. Is that really your father, and his lawyers?"

The last word was filled with venom. Shaun still suspected that the main reason his father wanted him home was to keep him out of any situations which might be embarrassing for the firm. He wasn't sure he could bear living in that big house, with a father who was distant even when they were in the same room. Once again, he remembered working in the sunshine with his Brothers, not just fixing cupboards, but actually making things. He remembered chanting at the rising sun, with Sky at his right hand side, surrounded by people who knew his name, who wanted to know how he was. And then he knew what he had to do.

He didn't even need to pack.

 

6.3 - Mabel

 

Mabel stared blankly at the street, seeing the people pass by, as she lazily wiped the last of the tables. She circled the counter to save the receipts the morning had produced.

Mabel's fingers worked swiftly through the papers, separating the few cheques and properly storing them in the till. She found Shaun's note lost among the receipts and motioned to the bin, then hesitated.

"Rachel, I'm going now, be back later," Mabel called out, unfolding the note. It was a mess. The words were hardly legible and there were symbols drawn everywhere. What did he expect her to make of this? She sighed and stored the note with the last of the receipts.

A few moments later, she was out - one of the passersby herself. Words were dancing in her mind as birds danced in the sky: home, bed, pillow. She smiled broadly at them.

Exhausting and uneventful, Mabel summarized the morning as she walked the few blocks separating her flat from the café. Well, except for Shaun, that is. She was worried about him. His scribbles made no sense, and they seemed to be an accurate portrayal of his state of mind. She couldn't understand Shaun's obsession with Popescu. Why doesn't he take on drinking like everyone else? Not that it helps, either, Mabel thought. She had no idea what to do to help her friend, and she didn't like that. She liked the look on Shaun's eyes even less, and the goodbye she now thought she heard in his every word.

Mabel crossed one more street and she was home. As soon as she reached the last of the steps leading to her door, a sense of uneasiness started to circle her, as sharks do their prey. She opened the door - the place was quiet, everything the way she left. She locked and bolted the door behind her, getting rid of her purse and shoes.

She turned around and her heart skipped a beat. Mihai was standing by the bathroom door. He stood there staring at her, nothing of a vulture today, but a predator nonetheless.

"What, how-," she started, but then she remembered. He never did return my spare key. Well, that answers how.

"I just want to talk," said Mihai. He spoke gently, the way one would to a scared child, turning his palms up in front of his body.

That answers what, Mabel thought. He started walking towards her very slowly and repeated, "Just talk." Then he kissed her.

She felt her muscles relax in his arms, his lips slowly brushing against hers, then his tongue finding hers. Everything disappeared for a moment, only to come crashing down on her. Mabel placed her hand on his chest and pushed him away, disentangling herself from his embrace as quickly as she had succumbed to it. Mabel was tired and confused; she wanted to shout at him. One look at his eyes, though, was enough to warn her to be cautious. There was something strange lurking behind those deep, green eyes. There was a new edge to them.

"You said you wanted to talk," said Mabel.

"Yes, we need to talk, I need to talk," he grabbed her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "You see, the fire means I have to talk. I have no other choice, I have to act now."

"You are hurting me," said Mabel. He did not loosen his grip. "Mihai, you are hurting me, can you hear me?"

He released her at once, looking wounded.

"I'm sorry, Mabel, I never meant to hurt you, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," said Mabel, stepping away. She wasn't sure what to do next. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yeah, tea would be great," said Mihai.

He pulled one of the chairs and sat - head down and hands folded. Mabel stared at him for a moment and then started on the tea. Her mind was racing, instinct kicking like a mule. What the hell is he talking about? Fire, action, he is making no sense. She looked over her shoulder, he had not moved. This man is dangerous, she thought, and not very stable.

She reached for the sugar in the cupboard, above her head, retrieving cups as well. Shit! Mabel thought, as she realized she would have to get past him to get to her swords. She had plenty of knives by her hands, but with knives one has to get close. She left one handy anyway. Better than nothing, she thought.

He looked up as she placed the cup in front of him.

"Thank you," said Mihai.

"Sure, you were talking about a fire?" She could be cautious and get some answers.

"Yes, but that is not where it starts."

His accent was stronger than she remembered. She ventured a guess. "Popescu?"

He nodded. "I came to this country for him, to find him. I had to pay some bad men to get here. Gangsters, you see. I did things I'm not proud of but I had to find him, no matter the cost. I spent every penny in this. It is my mission, what I live for."

"You live to find Popescu," she said slowly.

He nodded again. "I came with Dorin, but then they killed him. He is dead now, Dorin." She wondered if Dorin was the man on the beach. It had to be. What had Shaun said about the dead man on the beach? She couldn't remember, and waved the thought away. Mihai followed the movement with cold eyes. Mabel cleared her throat nervously, trying to think.

"You came all the way here for Popescu, you and Dorin," said Mabel. Mihai had said he was looking for his brother but he was really looking for Popescu. Why come all the way here, paying gangsters and what not, just to find him? Her brain was working hard to fit all the pieces together. None of this makes sense, she thought, except... "You were in the orphanage, weren't you, the one that caught fire?"

"Yes, Dorin and I both were there. So we came to find Popescu. Now Dorin is dead and the police are looking for me." He slammed his fist on the table. "And that artist woman, that's what she says, that she's an artist, she's been going around with pictures and names, showing them to people. Where she got them, I don't know. My name is there, Mabel, mine and Dorin's."

Mabel sipped her tea but it was already cold. Pictures, names, the artist woman. She wanted answers but she was only getting more questions.

"Mihai, I don't understand-," she started, but he interrupted her.

"What did Popescu tell you about the orphanage, about the fire?" His eyes were slits.

"He said he was called there because of the fire, he was the captain of the police. There was nothing he could do, though - the fire had killed them all."

"Nu! No!"

His scream had been so visceral and unexpected, that she fell down trying to get up and away from him. His expression was filled with rage but his hands were gentle as he helped her up.

"Mabel, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. But his lies anger me. All he told you are lies. The only children in the orphanage when it was torched were already dead. He is the father of lies."

"I thought that was the Devil," said Mabel, back on her chair.

Mihai nodded vigorously. "He is." He got up and walked to the window. Mabel wondered if she could get to her swords, now that he had his back to her. She gave up on the idea before he even moved.

"Things were bad in Romania with Ceausescu; they were bad after him as well. His regime had fallen and Western scrutiny was upon us. Suddenly, they cared." He turned to face her, a twisted smile on his lips. "The authorities, where they still existed, were cleaning up the mess. Popescu and his men were sent to the orphanage. So, they came. They found the place in ruins. The scent of death was everywhere. The angel of death did not bother leaving no more: he set up residency right among us."

He crossed the short distance between them and dropped to his chair. She wondered if she had ever seen such sadness outside of a mirror. "I'm so sorry, Mihai," said Mabel, and she reached for his hand. He patted her and pulled his hands back, placing them under the table.

"The carers had abandoned the children weeks before. Over a hundred had died of hunger and illness before Popescu even arrived. The living, malnourished and ill, were taken out. Popescu's men torched the building as they left."

"Taken out," Mabel repeated, a shiver running down her spine. Her voice mirrored the sorrow in his. "Taken where?"

"To the woods."

These three little words contained a world of pain and horror. He was in the orphanage and came here looking for Popescu. It was Mihai's mission, what he lived for: revenge. She looked as he laid his hand on the table. This time, it had come with a gun.

"Don't worry about it," said Mihai.

The mind is a funny thing. As Mabel saw the gun, her first thought was of Mr Culpepper. She started laughing as hysteria took her over, thinking about what he would say if he were to see her now: "Here, in the Sand Castle, we do not get involved in hostage situations. The members of our staff do not know people with guns."

Mihai's arms were around her, the gun within her grasp. She hadn't even seen him getting up. He was speaking to her; his voice was very calm, very soothing. Whatever he was saying, she couldn't understand: he was saying it in Romanian.

"Why haven't you taken your revenge?" Mabel had managed to calm down, and realized she needed more information if she was to make out of there alive. Mihai didn't seem to want to hurt her, but he did point a gun at her. He kissed her head and returned to his chair.

"I need a confession; I need to hear him say the words. He has to know what he has done, the harm he has caused. I want him to know that he will suffer for it, that I will make him pay for his crime. You understand this, don't you, dragostea mea?"

This Mabel understood. My beloved. The man is demented, she thought, he doesn't even know me proper. And he is pointing a gun at me! She could feel hysteria making its way back.

"This is too much!"

"Yes," he agreed, getting up. He was frantic. "Popescu, Dorin, the police, the artist woman. Then there was the fire, of course."

He placed the gun on the table, and leaned towards Mabel. "And then there was the woman, I didn't mean to shoot her. She startled me. She had no business being there!"

Mabel stared at the black hole that was the barrel of the gun. So many times she wished she had died in the fire with her parents, only to realize now that she hadn't meant it, not really. I want to live, she thought.

"It was an accident," said Mabel. It was her turn to speak softly. "Everyone can see that. She shouldn't have been there."

Mihai relaxed his grip on the gun, then removed his hand altogether, reaching for Mabel. She let him take her hands and smiled at him.

"Popescu needs to pay, his crime was unspeakable. You need to tell the authorities, here or in Romania, they-"

Mihai let go of her hands and shook his head slowly. His face was a mask as he laid his hand on the gun.

 

6.4 - Anastasia

 

Anastasia scrutinised the police interview room as Detective Sergeant Young spoke. She noted the scuffed blond wood table, like something from a 1980s IKEA catalogue. The obsolete recording equipment with its peeling labels. The vertical strip blinds, the bleak lighting. Anastasia had covered her pad with sketches of details, prominent amongst them DS Young's hands with their gnawed fingernails.

"That's not an answer, Miss Boty," said Young.

"It's the only answer I have," says Anastasia, eying Young whilst holding up a pencil to measure the proportions of her face.

"You say you need those dangerous materials for your work," said Young. "Maybe. My question is why you so recklessly chose to store them in an insecure workshop on a residential street."

"If the siting of my workshop is an issue," said Anastasia, resuming her sketch, "it's perhaps a question for the council. They issued the safety certificate after they inspected the premises."

"How did a child get in there?" said Young.

"I'd like to know how she got in, too," said Anastasia. "If she'd wanted to see my work I'd have shown her."

"Why was it so easy for Grace to start the fire?" said Young.

"Wrong question," said Anastasia. "She couldn't have caused that fire. To make those gas cylinders unsafe, to put dangerous substances in contact with one another, that would have taken a lot of strength. Things would have had to have been moved. Heavy things. Those gas cylinders? I can scarcely move them without help."

"You're saying there was someone else in there? Someone who escaped?" said Young.

"The child didn't start that fire, I'm certain of that," said Anastasia.

"But someone did," said Young, looking pointedly at Anastasia. Anastasia maintained the eye contact.

"Why would anyone enter your workshop, move things about?" said the male DC.

"You tell me," said Anastasia. "I came here to get away from the madness of London, to make my art without distractions. Since I've been here I've seen more violence, more death, than I've seen in my life before. A woman was shot in my apartment block. A man murdered, his mutilated body left for anyone to see. Now a blameless little girl is dead. This place is a bloody war zone!"

Anastasia was trembling as she left the police station. Holding a pencil in the interview room, sketching randomly, had helped to control her emotions, but now, alone and about to return to Castleton Road, the full scale of the day's events hit Anastasia. An icy wind drove in from the North Sea, whipping her hair viciously across her face. Rain fell, yet Anastasia barely noticed it. Her coat, unbuttoned, flapped heavily around her legs, her drenched dress clinging tight to her thin form.

Close to the corner of Castleton Road a slight figure fell into step.

"Anastasia," said Shaun, "Come with me." He led her into the flats and down into his own space. She went with him silently, assenting to his gentle concern. He put a mug of tea in front of her, and she gripped it tightly with two shivering hands.

The bell sounded, and Shaun went to the door. Anastasia looked about her. The small flat seemed to have been cleared. A rucksack stood by the sofa, packed and ready to go. Shaun came back, followed by a man in a protective jumpsuit.

"Anastasia Boty?" said the jumpsuit man.

"Yes?" said Anastasia, her eyes, unusually, not fully focused upon anything.

"I'd better explain," said Shaun. "I called the London number on your card when you didn't answer your mobile."

"The police have it," said Anastasia.

"I spoke to your assistant in London," said Shaun. "Told him about the fire. He said he'd handle things. The art salvage team have arrived. They're going to try to save your work."

"My work!" said Anastasia, standing. She dropped the mug down on the table, slopping tea across the stained surface.

"I've had a word with the fire service," said jumpsuit man. "The workshop area is still a crime scene, and they have a forensic investigation to complete. But we can have access to the the studio area at the rear. There's still a roof there, and the fire engineer said it was structurally sound. My colleagues are in there now, making an assessment of what might be saved."

"I want to see," said Anastasia.

A small huddle of people were still standing at the police tape, trying to get a better look at the scene of the tragedy. One of them broke away as Anastasia approached.

"Are you OK, Ana?" said Vassil. "I was so worried about you."

"I've been with the police," said Anastasia.

"Me, too," said Vassil. "Troyan is here, as well. I thought as he is an artist he might be able to help you. He says paintings are more resilient than people think."

The scene in the studio was bleak. The art salvage company had erected temporary lighting. The greater part of the building, where the workshop had been, was charred wood, melted plastic, twisted metal, blackened concrete. Much of the roof had gone, and a light mist of rain fell, diluting the pungent chemical odour of the firefighting foams used to kill the blaze.

The rear of the building, where it turned the corner of the 'L' shaped floor plan, retained a roof, and most of the windows. Sprinklers had automatically activated when the fire began, drenching the space. Anastasia lifted a sodden sketchbook from a table. It had the weight and texture of a saturated sponge.

"It's not as bad as it looks," said jumpsuit man. "I'm Si, and my colleagues here, Francesca and Rob can restore quite a lot of this stuff."

"Are you sure?" said Anastasia doubtfully.

"Speed matters now," said Francesca. "If you could help us to sort the papers, the canvases, photographs, we can bag them separately, and get them into the van."

"Then what?" said Shaun.

"They're stored at the optimum temperature for preservation while we transport them up to York," said Francesca. "At the labs there we'll dry them out in whatever way will produce the best results."

"Can I help?" said Vassil. "I'm a biochemist."

"The science bit goes on at the lab," said Si."But we can use another pair of hands."

Anastasia seemed to re-energise at the sight of her studio. "We've two artists here. If we divide into two teams to sort the stuff according to the main medium used, that'll speed things. Maybe you could work with Troyan, Shaun? He can identify what I've used. Vassil, come with me."

At the far wall stood the completed triptych. Under the harsh salvage lighting the destruction was clear. Smoke damage obscured some of the most delicate sections, especially those featuring the dead child. Anastasia lifted the hem of her dress to dab it on the grey misting, and it changed at her touch to an effect like a crackle glaze. Gracie's beauty was revealed again, but under a patina of what looked like coats of decayed antique varnish.

"It has been destroyed," said Vassil.

"No," said Anastasia, excitedly, ripping at the skirt of her dress. "And look!" She pointed at the largest of the Popescu icon figures. His raised hand was now disfigured by a stigmata in the form of a gunshot puncture.

Vassil looked at the hole in the canvas, then down on the floor. "The bullet! It is still here!" He bent to pick it up.

"Don't touch that, you idiot!" shouted Si. "I'll get the police to bag it up."

Anastasia dabbed gently at the smoked panel with torn cloth from her dress, stepping back occasionally to gauge the effect. Vassil brought panels, books and boxes forward for the artist's approval, before taking them to the salvagers for packing.

"I was so worried about you, Ana," said Vassil. "An artist should not endure such things. Such ugliness."

"Prettiness is mere decoration," said Anastasia, tearing off more of her dress. "Art deals with truth. That's not always comfortable."

"But you must be shocked," said Vassil. "As a woman..."

"As a person," said Anastasia, "I am very shocked. Appalled, distressed. A little girl died here. A little girl I knew. I observed her closely, not just for my sketches, but because she was extraordinary. I recognised something about her. She didn't accept the world as other people see it; she made it her own. She would have been an artist."

"I know it is tragic," said Vassil. "But no one would want to kill a child in this way? They must have wanted to kill you."

"That's ridiculous," said Anastasia. "Anyway, what makes you say 'they'? The police haven't said anything to you, have they?"

"No. It's probably nothing," said Vassil.

"What?" said Anastasia, putting down her scrunched cloth on a damp table and turning to face Vassil. Shaun, working near by, twisted around a little the better to hear their conversation.

"Troyan asked me if you would help him, that is true," said Vassil. "But I called you yesterday because I had to do it."

"Had to do what?" said Anastasia.

"Your visit to our factory," said Vassil. "It unsettled people."

"You told me," said Anastasia. "Those women thought I was from the Home Office."

"They don't matter," said Vassil. "There are other people. People who don't like strangers. People with much to hide. Bad people."

"What's that got to do with me?" said Anastasia.

"I was, instructed," said Vassil. "I had no choice. They said I was to meet you somewhere in town. Not the factory, not here. To find out more about you, to see if you were who you said you were."

"You told me at the Sand Castle you'd googled me," said Anastasia. "Why didn't they just do that."

"I don't know," said Vassil. "And I was happy you agreed to meet me. I pack meat all day, with people I wouldn't mix with back home. Uneducated people, criminals, even. A conversation with a cultured woman, a woman like you..."

Anastasia returned her gaze to the painting, and resumed her cloth dabbing, her back turned to Vassil. His face reddening, Vassil took his dismissal and returned to his task of sorting papers. Shaun approached.

"Anastasia?" said Shaun.

"What is it?" said Anastasia.

"I have to go," said Shaun. "Be very careful. There is more to this town than meets the eye."

 

6.5 - Nell

 

Nell checked her watch for the third time.

"Do you have somewhere more important to be?" Detective Constable Chivers asked.

She studied the photos spread out on the table in front of him. Three people dead in the last month. Chivers looked exhausted. It was the second time she'd been called to the police station since he had discovered her at the arcade, and she had nothing new to tell him. "I'm going to be late to work," she finally replied.

He loosened his tie and cracked his neck. "Ms. Harrison, I'm not sure you appreciate the gravity of the situation-"

"You're joking, right?" Nell said, slamming her hand on the table, her palm covering the remains of the child who had died in the fire. "My aunt has spent the last few days trying to hold it together while she helps Bess Greenwood plan a funeral for a five year old. She hasn't slept." She glared at Chivers. "Rachel...well, she even called my mother."

He checked his notes. "Her sister?"

"Yes."

"She probably needed someone to talk to."

Nell shook her head. "They aren't close."

"Tragedy often makes us reevaluate our relationships," he replied softly.

"You think I don't know that?"

Chivers began gathering the crime scene photos up. "No, of course you do."

"Did you know my uncle?" Nell asked after a minute.

"Your uncle?"

"He owned Sammy's. Died of cancer about ten years ago."

The DC nodded thoughtfully. "I remember him. Well, I remember when he married your aunt and brought her back here. It was a bit of a scandal." He looked down at his folders. "It seemed like a big deal at the time. Marrying a Yank."

Chivers seemed embarrassed, but Nell just nodded. "My husband was black. Small towns can be funny about...things." She cleared her throat. "When my uncle was dying, Rachel called my mother three times. Once, to tell her about the diagnosis, once to say he had died."

"What was the third time?" Chivers asked.

"It was in the middle of the night. The phone woke us up. We thought he must have died."

"But he hadn't?"

"No. Rachel was just overwhelmed. Lonely. She wanted my mother to come visit." Nell leaned forward. "You know what, Detective? We didn't even come for the funeral." She paused, pushing her hair behind her ears. "So when you tell me I don't understand how serious this is - Rachel hasn't shared more than polite conversation with my mother in a decade. This week, she's called her twice."

"I see," Chivers said.

"I'm not sure you do," Nell said, standing. "But I do. And if I could help, I would."

"You have my number."

She looked down at him. "Did you know Gracie Greenwood?" He shook his head. "It must have been awful."

After a moment, Chivers met her eyes. "I can't seem to forget the smell."

"I meant for her," Nell said quietly. She picked up her bag and let herself out of the conference room.

 

Nell was a few minutes late for her shift, and her aunt's summer hire, Sarah, glared at her. "Sorry," Nell said, grabbing an apron and replacing the teenager at the till.

"It's been crazy," Sarah said, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. "I'd stay to help with this-" she gestured at the line, "but I tutor. And I'm late."

Nell nodded absently. "I really am sorry."

"Whatever. Len told me to give you this." She handed Nell a list.

"What is it?"

"Stuff Rachel forgot to order," Sarah said, tossing her apron in the hamper and waving to a kid waiting by the door. "Good luck." Nell grunted and turned her full attention to her customers.

The lunch rush lasted much later into the afternoon than usual, and it seemed to Nell like everyone was still talking about the fire. The atmosphere had been tense all week; even the unusually bright spring weather hadn't proved a distraction.

After her husband was killed, Nell had discovered that people preferred to flock together like this in grief. It felt safer to gossip, to cry, to question what kind of God would allow such a thing to happen. Since most of their regulars knew that Rachel and Bess were close, Nell assumed this burst of business was partially fueled by survivor's guilt, and partially by a desire to be close to someone directly affected by the tragedy. Nell had lost count of how many had offered their sympathies. She'd told each well-wisher she would pass on their kind words, because that's what they wanted to hear, but she hadn't actually done it. Maybe she would, at some point, when it wasn't so raw. When Rachel started sleeping again, or when she stopped coming home with trash bags full of children's clothes.

The flat was filled with those white bags. The Greenwoods had wanted to throw away Gracie's things, but Rachel had offered to take them instead. It was a smart move. Nell had donated all of Brian's clothes the weekend after the chaplain notified her of his death. It had been unbearable to come home to his shoes by the door, to see his coat hanging in the closet. One night, she'd gotten out of bed at three am and filled bags just like the ones upstairs; she had been waiting at the door when the Salvation Army opened at nine. After her mother had discovered what Nell had done, she'd cursed her for being so impulsive. Nell could still remember staring into the ransacked closet, phone pressed against one ear, allowing all of her mother's disappointment to wash over her.

It was six months before she'd actually regretted it though. By then, she'd given away more than just clothes. She had sold the rugs they'd bought together before they were married, the lawnmower Brian had insisted on for their postage stamp backyard, the matching mountain bikes her brothers had given them as a wedding present. Nell had tossed what she couldn't sell, then moved into a cheap efficiency studio in a motel across town.

Eventually though, after the first wave of grief had burned itself out, Nell had been sick over how carelessly she had thrown her husband's memory away. Her mother-in-law hated her for it. His whole family felt betrayed that she hadn't offered them the opportunity to take mementos. Her own mother had simply settled into a grating rhythm of "I told you so." Your marriage was a mistake. You were too young. You threw away your education, and for what? What have you got to show for it now? Gracie Greenwood's bags taunted her anew.

Nell scrubbed at her eyes. Skegness had been such a relief after all that; over the past few months, her life had even begun to take shape again. Rachel gave Nell her space without shutting her out, and Mabel had proved to be an unexpectedly nice distraction, with her swords and her own mostly healed scars. Nell glanced at the clock. Where was her friend, anyway? It was already half past five. Mabel sometimes joked that circus time was a lot less precise than military, but this was absurd, even for her.

She dug in her backpack for her cell. No missed calls or texts. She dialed, and on the third ring, it picked up. She heard a muffled thump, then silence. "Mabel?" After a moment, she could hear a man's voice speaking, although it didn't sound like English. "Hello?" Nell looked at her phone. The call had been disconnected. She hit redial, but this time, it went straight to voicemail. She left a message telling Mabel to call her right back, but by closing, Mabel hadn't returned her call or shown up for work.

Nell dragged herself upstairs, but after only a few minutes in the flat, her chest began to hurt. Right after Brian had died, she'd started getting panic attacks, and on the advice of a few women in her spousal loss support group on base, she had taken up running to try to combat them. Even after all this time, Nell still associated punishing workouts with relief, so she threw on shorts and a tee shirt and laced up her sneakers before she could decide that a bottle of wine was an easier way to get through the night.

The weather was still surprisingly warm considering the hour. Nell ran down Castleton, passing the police station before cutting right onto North Parade until she reached the Scarborough Esplanade. As she headed toward the water, she passed a few young couples taking advantage of the relative privacy, but by the time she passed the pier, the beach was hers. The only sound was her breath and a soft rhythmic splash every time her feet struck the edge of the outgoing tide.

Nell was so intent on following the curve of the water line that she almost fell over Bobby Thomas. He was sifting through beach debris on his hands and knees. He had clearly been at it for a while; his pants were stiff with sand. He had thrown his suit jacket aside, and Nell could see he had a gun shoved into his waistband.

She came to a stumbling stop as the light from his torch swung into her eyes. Half blind, she nearly missed him reaching for his weapon. "Bobby! It's me," Nell called, hands going up instinctively.

"What do you want?" he growled.

"What do I...?" She gestured at the empty beach. "I'm having a goddamned tea party - what does it look like?"

Bobby glanced around, clearly flustered. "It's here. I know he's left it here. I just have to find it." He lunged at her, grabbing her arm and squeezing it tightly. "Help me look."

His face was damp with sweat. "You look like shit." She pried his fingers from her arm. "I bet some of your stitches have come out. And you must be getting sand in everything! Those wounds have to say clean, Bobby."

He thrust the torch at her. "We have to find it. Tonight."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Marcus is going to kill you," he hissed, his breath hot on her face.

"Can you back up a sec?" Nell asked. "What's going on?" He stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "Bobby?"

"Just...help me." He sounded exhausted. Nell wondered what infections might have developed since she'd last checked him over.

"Okay. Can you tell me what we're looking for?" She flicked the light across the empty sand.

Bobby dropped back to his knees too quickly and lost his balance, grabbing at her legs to right himself. His feverish cheek rested against her for a moment; Nell gingerly patted his head, and he let out a sigh.

Nell glanced up to gauge how far they were from the road when she saw two men loitering by the low wall separating the beach from the street. "Uh, Bobby?" she murmured, switching off the light. "Were you expecting anyone?" He looked up, and she pointed silently toward the figures.

He reached for his gun. "If they try to touch you, I'll fucking kill them, I swear," he said roughly. "I always repay my debts."

Bobby didn't even try to stand though, and after a moment, she knelt down and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. He was shivering. "Maybe they haven't seen us yet, right? What if we just try and stay very still?"

"They'll go away?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"And if they don't?"

Nell squeezed his arm nervously. Bobby needed a doctor; he sure as hell wasn't going to be able to make a break for it if things went south here.

"I kill them," he said softly, answering his own question. "And you run."

 

 

6.6 - Mungo

 

 

Mungo journeyed into the Underworld like Odysseus, Aeneas and Dante before him. The Underworld went by a different name in Skegness and that name was the Funfair. But as with the eternal inferno, there was nothing fun or fair about it. All nine circles of Hell could be found here, populated by demons and sinners, if you could tell the difference, who all indulged in their devious decadent ways.

He had bundled through the vestibule with little resistance, despite clutching a mostly empty canister of Wonky Donkey super-strength cider. The pimply teenager manning the gate, Ron, requested coins that Mungo had already spent but his supervisor Charlie intervened. 'So it is wanted, there where the power lies,' said the supervisor with a shrug. Mungo did not know how much of that he imagined but he was swiftly ushered through the gates of Hell.

Immediately, his senses were bombarded with the screams and sulphur and burning lights of the Outer Circles. The Demons took much amusement in the drunken clown, howling and cackling at his drunken delirium. Little imps pointed and tittered, red toffee apples smeared around their cherub cheeks as if they had been feasting on entrails. The bigger demons, hooded like the Grim Reaper himself, spun Mungo round and round then shoved him to the ground where he landed in a river of sticks, discarded from candy floss and toffee apples and lollipops.

Lying on his back, he saw feathered harpies wheeling overhead in the black starless sky, where the fierce glow of the rides could not reach. Oh, the rides! Such nefarious abominations looming over him like titans escaped from the Inner Circles. They bore names like Waltzer and Sky Swat and Tumble Bug and The Tea Cups but the cider helped Mungo see their true form. These contraptions were instruments of torture.

The damned were shackled into the mechanisms, which closed and locked with the finality of an Iron Maiden. The contraptions would then come to life, inflicting torment on their prisoners with a never-ending assault of spins and loops and drops and ricochets until each victim regurgitated the contents of their stomachs. And all the while, these demonic mechanisms would grin down at the sinners wailing in their clutches.

Many of these grins were airbrushed on like tribal markings, taking the guise of crude cartoon characters or lustful disproportioned sirens. But these were a facade. The contraption wore them like a Halloween mask. Under those bright, sprayed colours were sinister hollow eyes and a hunger for Skegness souls. The Haunted House wore the thinnest disguise, with the Devil himself looming out of the front like the bow of a great ship. 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,' he roared through tinny speakers. Mungo had given up hope long ago.

The closest thing Mungo had to a guide was the bottle in his hands. Cider is my Virgil , he told himself before draining the rest of its contents. It gave him the strength he needed to scramble to his feet and hurtle through the remaining Circles, catching glimpses of sin despite trying to shield his eyes. The Second Circle contained the lustful, fornicating atop wheelie bins round the back of the carousel. The Third Circle held the gluttons, gorging themselves on burgers of unspecified meat, overflowing with a hell-broth of cheese and onions and grease. Then he was at the Seventh Circle, a place of violence, where demons fought over penny-machines in the arcade, punching and kicking and biting.

And then he reached the Innermost Circle of Hell, a place reserved for frauds and traitors and the most fiendish of sinners. A place reserved for him.

The structure in front of him read Marley's House of Mirrors.

It was time to face judgement. Mungo entered.

 

* * *

 

Mungo lost the entrance immediately and staggered back and forth, bouncing off the labyrinthine corridors of mirrors like a pinball. Mirrors lined each wall from floor to ceiling, both of which were also covered in mirrors themselves, so whether he looked up or down or sideways he would be met with his reflection. It was like he had stumbled into a glass Escher painting, with infinite height and depth and width, but all surfaces looked back at him in judgement.

What is the plural of Mungo? he thought nonsensically but it was a valid question. There were hundreds and thousands of Mungos, Mungii, Mungolia, everywhere, stretching away into the distance like eternal conga lines. And no two mirrors were the same. Concave and convex glass was diverging and converging all around him, twisting Mungo's reflection into bizarre surrealist shapes. There was Fat Mungo and Thin Mungo and Short Mungo and Rhombus Mungo and all manner of bizarre distortions in between.

And whilst the mirrors distorted his reflection, the cider had been distorting his mind. Reality was slipping away from him, as well as his centre of balance. His whirled around in a daze, surrounded by unfathomable numbers of clowns of all shapes and sizes, but sharing the same green wig and red nose and unforgiving staring eyes.

Mungo had come here for this judgement and welcomed the burning pain it caused. The looks were heavy too and he was driven to his knees under the weight of their eyes. The clowns spun faster and faster like a zoetrope and he thought his sanity would crumble right there and then.

But then everything stopped.

Mungo took a deep breath and looked forward. He saw a new Mungo. This one was a young Mungo. And it was no reflection either. The Young Mungo was cleaning a cannon - the very same cannon that Buck Bodega used to be fired from in a ball of flame. Oh no, please. Mungo knew what played out before his eyes. This was The Mirror of Mungo Past. He was watching the night of the circus fire.

'Please, I wanted punishing, not reminding,' he wept.

'That is your punishment,' the other Mungos said together.

Mungo watched as his younger self finished cleaning the cannon and putting in the gunpowder. They were midway through a full dress rehearsal with costumes and pyrotechnics. Mungo could have been in the stalls watching with the rest of his troupe but instead he was backstage helping prepare for Bodega's act. He was different back then, always looking for a way to help, never idle. He never wanted Ringmaster Romero to think he took the circus for granted. After all, Romero had saved him from his abusive -

'Father!' Mungo and Young Mungo said in unison, becoming one. The mirror did not lie. Mungo's father had been there on the night of the fire. Mungo watched as his father marched over to him, swinging his infamous cane.

'Joseph,' said his father, shaking his head in disgust. 'So this is where you've been hiding all these years. Just a stone's throw from home.'

Mungo swallowed. He trembled in fear, a lifetime of miserable memories returning. Somehow he managed to find his voice and mumbled, 'That was no home.'

His father marched nearer. 'You ungrateful little shit. I thought you were dead. Instead, you were prattling around in costume and make-up like a nancy boy. You're coming home with me. And then I am going to take that Ringmaster to court for kidnapping young boys.'

'Don't you dare!' said Mungo. 'Romero never kidnapped me. He is like a father to me!'

His father swung the cane with a well-practised aim and smacked Mungo in the temple. Blots of pain burst into his vision. 'No, I was like a father to you! I brought you up properly. Made you smart. Made you tough.'

'You beat me,' wailed Mungo.

'You had to be tough to take on the family business.'

'But why did you cane her? Why did you cane my step-mother?'

His father stared at him, incredulous, as if that were obvious. 'Because she was useless. She wasn't a patch on your mother but your mother died in childbirth, when you dragged half of her innards out with you in your chubby little fist.'

Mungo was hyperventilating, his chest tighter with each passing second.

'I had to remarry, a man in my position. But I didn't have to like it. And it's lucky you had your mother's eyes or I might have smothered you with a pillow on the operating table.' The cane struck Mungo again and again. Mungo put the cannon between them but the cane had a long reach.

'You little shit! You killed my great love! And I kept you all the same. And how did you thank me? You ran off to join the circus.'

The cane struck Mungo hard across the nose.

'I think it's time you gave me a proper thank you,' sneered his father. 'Now what do you say?'

Mungo thought of his kind step-mother and only one word came to mind. 'Fire!'

His father had just enough time to narrow his eyes. 'What?'

BOOM.

Mungo had lit the fuse of the cannon as he positioned it between them. The ball fired out, igniting the gunpowder and bowling right into his father's abdomen, lifting him up into the air like a flaming meteor. Mungo watched as the man who had once broken his step-mother's jaw - and had extinguished a whole packet of cigarettes on his back for smoking and had governed with fear and cruelty and a tongue as barbed as his cane - now flew into the air in a fireball.

Sadly, inevitably, Mungo's victory was short-lived. The cannonball drove the burning corpse into the canopy covering the circus ring. And so began the circus fire. The Big Top set alight rapidly and relentlessly, causing the flaming canopy to tumble down on the rehearsal below. There was panic and screaming and failed attempts at rescue but Mungo only knew some of that because he was afraid. He ran and he ran, never looking back, not to save his troupe, his friends, his surrogate family, not for anyone.

'Please, no more,' wailed Mungo at the mirror. 'No more.'

He turned away from the images but was faced with another just as terrifying. This one showed an older, fatter Mungo, lying at the foot of his burnt bench, cold and grey with a dried crust of vomit on his waistcoat. Naturally, there was a bottle in his hand. Several people walked by but none spared him a glance, save the seagulls. They provided another eulogy in the sky, as they had for his bench, wheeling and wheeling like a cyclone overhead. This was the Mirror of Mungo Yet To Come. He wept at the shadows of what might be.

'Please, let this madness end. I have seen enough.'

At that, the mirrors started spinning once more. Flames and wings and flames and wings, revolving faster and faster round his head. Mungo covered his ears to block out the burning and the cawing but it was no use so he screamed for mercy until he thought his head might split open. Then he collapsed, tumbling down into oblivion.

 

* * *

 

A cold bucket of water struck Mungo in the face, quenching the fires in his dreams and awaking him to the dawn of a new day. He had spent the night in Marley's House of Mirrors.

'Wake up mate,' said the attendant. 'This isn't a B and B. I will give you five minutes then I'm calling the police.'

Mungo blinked around with bleary eyes. The House of Mirrors had lost much of its charm in the light of day, which streamed through the open fire exit. The labyrinthine complex of mirrors was now just a corrugated iron shed with a few planes of glass drilled to the walls.

But then he froze. He found himself looking into one mirror he had not seen the night before. This mirror was more terrifying then any of them. The glass was smooth, devoid of any distortion. Mungo was face to face with his own reflection. It was the Mirror of Mungo Present.

The water had washed off his clown make-up and Mungo saw his real face clearly for the first time in years. Time had taken its toll. Wrinkles cut across his face like battle-scars. His nose was peppered with burst blood vessels almost as red as his fake nose and his eyes were redder still, bloodshot, swollen. His wig had dropped off and Mungo saw his own grey hair which receded up his forehead as if fleeing the erosion of his weathered face.

'You have grown old behind that make-up, Mungo,' he said to himself.

But he still had some time and he would use it well. He could never make amends for the circus fire but perhaps there was some good he could do with the days he had left. There were people that needed his help. He would start with Mabel. Mungo decided to stop running from her too.

The tattooed man who assaulted him was looking for Mabel. And if that man was involved then it would be dangerous. But Mungo did not care. The time for cowardice was over. He had lived on his bench for twelve years - he would not die on his bench as well. He walked out, leaving the mirrors empty.

He saw the attendant on the way out. 'What's today, my fine fellow?'

The attendant scowled. 'Easter Sunday. Have you got a home to go to?'

'Yes,' said Mungo. And to himself he added: Mabel's home.

But first he reached into his briefcase and pulled out his white clown make-up. If he was going to war then he would need some war-paint.